


Lieder ohne Worte

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dancing, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin, just a little prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Lieder ohne Worte

  The doors were shut and locked, metal shutters pulled down so no passerby could even peek into the gallery. Proud cursive script displayed “Hickman Gallery” in bold on the face of the building. Just a Tuesday night, muggy and damp like the rest of them.

 “Why exactly are we here, again?” John’s voice was a gentle disturbance in the slow quiet of the place.

  There was no answer to his words. Or at least not one Sherlock cared enough to say. Instead he took the shorter man by the hand and lead him to the side of the building where another door, this one plain, was held open with a brick. John only became more confused, for a few reasons. One: they were sneaking into a museum; two: Sherlock had his violin in one hand; and three: he had John’s hand in the other. But John said nothing more, mainly out of fear of being caught and the frustration that would bring him. A worker must have taken care of the building, as the obviously old door made not even a creak when Sherlock used a foot to open it. Sherlock, who had been switching between grinning like a madman ( _Not too far off,_ John thought) and wearing a more reserved and cautious expression. Though it was rather odd, it was far from the most peculiar sort of things John was usually dragged into by his colleague.

  Guiding him through the art gallery ( _and seriously, still holding my hand to do it?_ ), Sherlock eventually pulled John into a familiar room. The white walls were drab in the dark and on one wall stuck a nail, formerly used to hang a frame. Next to it was mounted a plastic slip with a piece of paper, yet to be removed, describing the piece that used to be presented there. A piece claimed to have been painted by the artist Vermeer, famous for his portrayal of human emotion, but just a fake at the end of the day. John looked to the wall and then to Sherlock, to find the man animatedly looking around the room as though expecting to see something that just wasn’t there.

  And then he let go his hold of John’s hand, which by that point was a tad sweaty, and took a few steps back. He was looking forward, but not at anything in the room. Something else entirely. His eyes closed, the bow to his instrument was pulled from inside his coat, and the violin was brought to rest under his chin. John noticed the slight shakiness with which he held the bow as it was poised to begin its descent upon the strings.

  The music began to form.

  It was not as erratic as his usual pieces, nor was it as melancholy or debauch. Instead it was controlled. But for all it was controlled, it was still being played by Sherlock Holmes. He made Mendelssohn’s even more beautiful, and gave it a power John had never heard before. There was something so distinctly Sherlock, something so particular that the man was pouring into the music. Be it pride or joy or fear; it was enchanting. Perhaps there was no word for it, there is no word for it, and there never will be. In that moment, in that gallery, something was born. John speculated. The pressure of Moriarty, or maybe the afterglow of solving so many cases in such a short period of time. Showing Lestrade, Anderson, hell give him the whole of Scotland Yard. They all knew that Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was well and running. But even that could not be it. It was not powerful enough.

  Few things in the world gave John Watson a sense of peace. Never would he have thought “Lieder ohne Worte” on the violin would be one of them. Though not too long ago, he would also never have thought he would end up running with a man who searched with the determination of a bloodhound and played quick like the hunted fox. But there he was, watching the great Sherlock Holmes be even greater. A warmth spread through him in spite of the cold, and a relaxed pleasure in spite of the way his stomach flipped when Sherlock bit at his bottom lip while concentrating on playing the piece. To use the term ‘concentration’ didn’t work with describing the moment though. Neither did fixation, obsession, or infatuation. Sherlock was not thinking as he played, or at least not thinking about the way he snapped and dragged the bow along the strings.

  John slowly, though with no hesitation and instead the desire to never forget how the detective looked while lost in his own mind palace so deeply and so wonderfully, approached the taller man. He reached up and set his hand firmly over the dancing bow, making the music come to a halt. Then John took the instrument away completely, walked off a little way’s away, and set it down where it would be safe from being stepped on by a misplaced footfall. The hand that was holding the bow, long and thin and pale ( _the hands of an artist,_ John thought, _an artist who paints with ideas and discoveries_ ), was taken into John’s smaller hand and held tightly.

  They locked eyes, and the words were said silently:

_"May I have this dance?”_

  With that, Sherlock climbed out a window of his palace and, taking John’s waist into his hold, he began to dance. He recalled classes taken when he was a lad, his parents having decided that the grace of dance was a necessity. The instructor hadn’t like his attitude, being mainly quiet but a smart ass when he found one of her moves sub-par, but she did enjoy the way the boy danced. At the time Sherlock was gangly limbs and bad balance. But when he began to dance and had a rhythm to follow, something to try and unlock, he glided across the floor with the ease of one well-practiced. With time the skill was perfected, and never used again until he found himself floating around the Hickman Gallery to some silent song, guiding John with him. John had never taken classes, but had enough practice dancing with various girlfriends in the past.

  They were not aware of the mutual tune in their heads, though to some degree Sherlock would’ve claimed he was entirely aware. John may not have been leading, but the bounce and sometimes rushed withdrawal of his steps away from where the fake Vermeer was once gloriously displayed on the clean wall could’ve been a give away to whatever was guiding him along in the dance (whatever guided him besides Sherlock, who seemed to enjoy the control he had of the situation). Something in the silent melody shifted and slowed, urging Sherlock to pull John a bit closer as their gliding slowed to drifting. There was no protest from the doctor, which the detective took as a good sign.

  John didn’t know he had been holding his breath until he felt Sherlock nuzzle into his hair and he finally released a sigh. When the man hummed and rubbed his cheek against John’s hair, it came as of little surprise. Sherlock was not fond of being touched, but when it was him doing the touching it was different. It hadn’t taken John long to realize his flatmate was tactile. So he just relaxed and moved slowly with the taller man, letting himself be guided.

 Suddenly it was as if the music swelled, John pressing even closer and feeling Sherlock roll his hips. He shivered from the shock of it and moved his arms so they were draped loosely over the other man’s shoulders and holding together behind his neck. A few moments passed, hesitation from Sherlock’s end, before the detective figured out what exactly to do next. Pursuits of intimacy were not typically of importance to him, so John forgave his inexperience without saying a word. Instead he brought their hips flush together (or as best they could with their difference in height) as Sherlock’s hands held onto his hips tightly. 

 Feet still moving, they kept dancing. The two felt warmth from one another combined between them, and each step added friction to the mixture. The music was speeding up, their bodies pressing closer together as they moved around the room. John was lucky enough to be able to drag across Sherlock’s leg, serving to key him up farther.

_Affrettando._

 Movement was faster, the song forgotten in favor of a new one. One created as the men side-stepped and spun and grinded against one another. It was harsh, but not rough, and not without caring caresses. Hands slipping around to gently stroke across whatever skin was available, needing and wanting and being rewarded with breathy gasps and little moans. Sherlock’s knees were shaking and tired from running from case to case and dancing and not sleeping and--

  _“John, please.”_

 He froze and locked eyes with the shorter man, panting and holding tight as a needy whine escaped from his throat and cum from his cock.

 


End file.
